Leaving Imladris
by maitimo.nelyafinwe
Summary: Aragorn, aged twenty years, looks back once more on the valley of Imladris.


A/N: Found this laying about...thought someone just might enjoy it...it's quite pointless really, which is rather unlike me, but here it is, nonetheless! The style is wholly unlike me, but it did get two good reviews on Sorry if there's any confusion...I post under a different penname there. This story isn't plagiarized. You can ask either of me.

Aragorn looked back over his shoulder one final time, towards Imladris...towards his home. He looked back towards his mother and Elrond, and towards the world of Elves, and he blessed them all, silently. From his position atop the valley wall over-looking the Last Homely House, he could see the colours of dawn gathering in the east, and thought them painfully serene. He had left his home without saying farewell to anyone. His mother and Elrond knew of his plans to depart, and he could not bear to go before their eyes. He did not wish to cause them any pain. His mother, especially, would weep to see her only son go. She had long opposed him leaving Imladris, and when he had begun to accompany his brothers on their smaller errands with hunting parties near the Trollshaws west of Imladris at only fifteen years of age, she had spent months displeased with Lord Elrond for giving her son permission. His mother had never wholly left behind the pain of seeing her husband carried to her side, already blinded by the arrow of some Orc, only to die of fever in her arms the next day. She feared the same for her son.

He looked back toward his brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, and smiled slightly. It would be no age before he saw those two again. They were often abroad, and would take no pains to avoid him. Many times, he had heard them speak of the Rangers from the North, and of their dealings with them. If it were these men Aragorn went to join - provided that they would accept him - perhaps he would meet with them again soon. Aragorn rejoiced at having some scrap of his past to look forward to.

He looked back toward Arwen. She had been most on his mind of late, as he prepared to leave, and he had even gone against his better judgement and gone to her room that morning. She was still abed, and sleeping as peacefully as any could. He would not wake her. However, he had crept into the room and lain another blanket atop his love, for though the fire still blazed from the log he'd added during one of his midnight walks the night before, there was a chill draft. Only now did he realise that this was done without reason, for, being an Elf, Arwen would not have felt the cold. He was glad to have forgotten, for he now had that last image of Arwen to keep, lying there, bathed in the fast-fading starlight. Although Aragorn had never dared to imagine Luthien, he felt then that Arwen's beauty must have exceeded even that of Tinúviel.

A sense of regret filled Aragorn. At last, he parted ways with the only one who would see him go. He bid farewell to Estel, the child he had been, and, with his fingers tracing over the hilt of Narsíl, concealed beneath his cloak, he accepted Aragorn, Arathorn's only son and Isildur's last heir. He turned away then, from all that he had ever loved, and left Gilraen's boy Estel behind, to die in winter's cold.

He had walked at great lengths before, and he was more than fit and able, but that day he had begun his journey with a shadow of weariness hanging over him, and by the middle of the day, he was feeling as if he was in need of rest. Traversing the steep, rocky inclines surrounding Imladris had been especially difficult in the biting cold, and crossing the ford at Bruinen had been most unpleasant. After this he had set a quicker pace, and had made good time. Now, the trees were thickening, and he knew he must be coming near to the Trollshaws. He was in no unfamiliar place as of yet, and decided to stop and rest while he still knew the land. He had brought no maps with him from Lord Elrond's library, but had spent many hours alone studying them until they were clear in his mind. In fact, he had taken very little. Two spare sets of clothing lay folded at the bottom of his satchel, with a small stock of bandages and his own supply of herbs. He had taken a dozen squares of way bread with him as well. It was not much, but lembas kept like no other food, and he planned to forage or hunt the majority of the time. Purposefully hidden from himself he had taken a large pouch of pipe-weed, and tucked into his belt was his father's hand-carved pipe. He had smiled briefly as he'd packed it, thinking of how angry his mother would have been if she'd known that her son had developed the same habit of smoking that had plagued her when her own husband had indulged in it. 'Yes,' Aragorn thought ruefully. "She would be most displeased with me.' He carried also a meagre bedroll, a full quiver of arrows, and his bow, and at his side were Narsíl's shards and his own sword, that had once been his father's.

And his head was full of memories. He liked not to dwell on them as he walked, though, for his feet would begin to drag and his mood would darken, and he would be tempted to turn back to his home and his family. He could say that he had only been away hunting, and be left alone on the matter. But, driven by some will that did not seem to be his own, he pressed onward until he reached a point at which turning back seemed impossible.

As the afternoon drew on, he went deeper and deeper into the forest until the chill wind could no longer reach him, and he found a clearing and collapsed there. Aragorn was twenty years old, but he did not look it. As one of the long-lived Dúnedain, he would be confined to a very boyish appearance for at least five more years - a fact which had often discouraged him. The few men who were not Rangers that he had met had treated him quite disrespectfully, and had told him that he would be silent until spoken to, or some nonsense such as that. He had always disapproved of how the race of men spoke to their children, and he had vowed that day that if he were ever to have any children he would speak to them kindly and with the same understanding with which his mother had spoken to him.

However, he felt more like a young child that he ever had at that moment. He sat, utterly alone in that little clearing. The realisation that he was, in truth, still quite small came upon him suddenly, and he sat down between the age-old roots of an enormous oak and drew his knees up to his chin. Elrond had told him not long before that he looked fair, and come early into manhood, and though he was flattered he hardly believed his foster-father. He felt like no long-lost Lord of Men at present, nor as is he even belonged with the likes of the great Dúnedain of the North, much less their Chieftain. Aragorn realised then the juxtaposition he had thrown himself into. He was comparing his capabilities now to the tasks that would be the work of even the greatest man's life. Yet, even with such reasoning at his side.

Aragorn was alone. There was no one there to see him, and so he began to cry. He was silently, but there tears rolled down his cheeks in abundance, and his shoulders shook. Then, behind him, there came the sound of a horse...one single horse. He thought that whatever rider would come upon him alone in the middle of the day so unthinkingly must not have known that he was there. Although the air was frigid and the forest quiet as death, Aragorn could feel none of the evil power thrumming about him he had heard was present when a Nazgúl was near. Still, his hand rested on his dagger readily. Deciding that if it were an enemy that came nigh, surprise would be the best tactic. He feigned sleep, his heavy cloak wrapped about him and his knife drawn beneath it, poised for attack if one was necessary. The horse drew up beside him and halted. Aragorn gripped his weapon tighter. Then, he felt something entirely unexpected. There was a rush of hot breath against his face, accompanied by a soft nicker. The horse nudged his brow insistently, as if the it knew he was not truly asleep. So, Aragorn opened his eyes to greet whatever rider had decided to be so bold, for better or worse.

There was no rider. The saddle of the horse was empty. All Aragorn was met with was the tip of a long nose and a velvety nuzzle. The horse looked expectantly at him. Aragorn rose and stroked the beast's powerful ebony neck. This was, without a doubt, an Elvish steed. Aragorn wondered if his rider might have been unhorsed, perhaps injured somewhere nearby. Checking through the saddle bag for any hint at the rider's identity, he found it empty, but for a single piece of folded parchment at it's bottom. He drew it out and unfolded it.

Estel,  
I know that you must leave. Remember those who love you, and know that I love you. Keep me in mind. Roheryn is very young, and he shall be with you for many years. He shall follow when you go.  
Arwen

Aragorn wiped the last of the tears from his eyes. He tied his own bag onto the saddle, and mounted. The horse was indeed young, for with a rider atop him he became very excited, and Aragorn spurred him on, into thinner parts of the forest, and together, they left familiar places behind, and went out into the Wild.


End file.
